Musings of a Dark Lord
by SAMarcus
Summary: Dull nights with Voldemort lead to rambling thoughts and tangents. What does a Dark Lord think about between revels and overly complicated plans to do mayhem? Will be added to on a random basis as I am inspired to wonder.
1. Chapter 1

The manor was quiet. Bellatrix was out hunting up a muggle for entertainment later. Lucius was overseeing his businesses so as to ensure a steady flow of funds. Wormtail was out spying or more likely just hiding in a dark hole somewhere. The Lestranges were just out. All of the other Death Eaters were either out tending to their cover lives, on missions for him, or otherwise occupied in the efforts to secure the world for him. This night was one of the very rare times when no one was actively groveling at his feet, begging for mercy, screaming under his wand, or conniving for his favor. A detestably boring and dull night, one that always led to introspection.

Voldemort looked into the mirror at his new body and sighed. For weeks after the resurrection ritual and his failed duel with Potter, anytime he caught sight of his reflection, his anger would surface and he often struck out at his followers for trivial matters, especially Wormtail, the "master" of the ritual.

Even now, he looked over his slightly deformed body and remembered his youthful appearance. For the first time in weeks, he did so without the surge of anger that usually accompanied his thoughts. Muggles would refer to this as an acceptance point in a long psychiatric treatment for a serious case of trauma. Voldemort, of course, didn't know this and probably wouldn't have cared in any case. While looking over the miserable excuse for a body he had now, he though back to the ritual and wondered about what was the actual turning point in the process where things went wrong. His research into the spells had shown that this was never the outcome of the ritual; that it either failed horribly or went perfectly. This half state was highly unusual.

He considered the information he had gained since then. The easiest point of blame, and now frequent target of the Cruciatis, was Wormtail for being less than "willing" to give up his flesh. If the idiot could cut off his own finger to save himself from Black, why didn't the rat cut off another finger to revive his master? The ritual didn't call for his entire hand. That was just stupidity on the rat's part. Of course, the key was more about the "willingly given" part. The fact that Wormtail gave his hand as much out of fear as any other form of loyalty may have been what corrupted the ritual's intent. Perhaps Bellatrix would have been a much better choice. After all, her loyalty was absolute. Insane? Yes, but absolute all the same. Of course, a female servant's flesh might have had other consequences beyond the obvious ones this ritual had already manifested.

But other information was also both disturbing and enlightening. Voldemort recently learned about the encounter between Potter and the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets. Apparently, during the ensuing battle, Potter was bitten by the monstrous snake and would have died except for a phoenix's tears. Quite enlightening to know that the legend that had always surrounded the tears and the venom was actually true, but was trivial compared to other information about them. While the tears did indeed save Potter's life, it did not remove the venom from his blood. Nagini had confirmed this later when she smelled her master and informed him that the elements of Potter's blood included the venom of the great snake and the tears of the phoenix in perfect balance with each other. This made Potter immune to poisons of any type while also making his blood a dangerous thing to be flinging around.

Voldemort frowned while thinking about this. Was the basilisk venom the mistake? The tears? Wormtail's perfidy? Why was his body this horrid mess?

With a sigh, he realized that it really didn't matter in the end. He was stuck with this ghastly parody of a human shell for the foreseeable future. Did he really want to keep this dark lord thing going like this anymore? Were these damnedable pureblood sheep really worth ruling over?


	2. Chapter 2

As Voldemort sat down onto the slab of cold stone that served as a "toilet" in the Malfoy Manor, he couldn't help but wonder about the backwardness of wizards who still used chamber pots. Chamber pots! He was pretty sure he remembered something about toilets being invented before Hogwarts was even a blueprint.

He sighed as he reminisced about looking over the charmed replacement for the old castle midden at Hogwarts. Truly a masterpiece of enchantment. Apparently, the fellow who designed it in the 20s vanished the waste into various muggle sewer systems in the surrounding area. Truly genius! Using the muggles as they were meant to be used, as servants to the magical world.

Another irritation began to "arise" as Voldemort's sensitive sense of smell picked up the various odors of the room. Wrinkling his "nose" in disgust, he once again wondered how these people could call themselves civilized when their idea of sanitary concerns still consisted of the occasional bath once or thrice a week. He really did miss the showers from Hogwarts. Ahh, the feeling of warm water cascading down one's back. The relief of tensions from a difficult day. Several of his followers had been shocked when he insisted on taking a bath as often as daily! At least Wormtail had an excuse for his offensive odor. The rat in him just begged for Voldemort to strike.

As Voldemort prepared to rise, he looked around and silently cursed himself for forgetting these people also never picked up on toilet paper! Barbarians.


	3. Chapter 3

Once again, Voldemort found himself reminiscing about his time as a Dark Lord. He was still having a few issues with looking in mirrors to see his current face, but that was starting to pass. No, today he was wondering where other things had started to go wrong and strangely enough, one of his lesser minions actually provided an epiphany.

He had been walking down a hallway in the Manor when he overheard a couple of the Death Eaters talking. Thinking to relieve his sour mood at yet another failed mission, he listened for a moment to see if they said something worth punishing. A small graced his thin lips as he heard one trying to persuade another to be the bearer of some bad news. Yes, this would be most worthy of a few Cruciatas curses here and there, and maybe a killing curse for the fool who sought to avoid his duty. Just as he was preparing to burst into the room and lay down some minor lessons in being proper minions, one of them said something odd.

"Look, I don't care what your news is. I ain't tellin' the boss about YOUR fuck ups. I was Slytherin, not Gryffindor. You want an idiot, go find one of them to take your place."

Something in Voldemort's mind clicked when he heard this. Taking his hand off the doorknob, he quickly moved away so he wasn't discovered to think this little episode through. He could always come back and Crucio them later if he wanted.

Now, sitting on his throne in the twilight of the poorly lit room, he thought about his decision to use Slytherins for his Death Eaters. Sure, ambitious people are easy to manipulate. A few promises, usually empty, here and there and they always did what you wanted. But they were never loyal, they always, always, were out for themselves first and the moment you were an obstacle or they thought they could get away with betrayal, they would turn on you. Insane Bellatrix was an exception.

Gryffindors were often just as easy to get moving down paths you wanted, but they always had that annoying right and wrong gibberish getting in the way. Their bravery and all the notions of self-sacrifice made them simple minded and weak. Wormtail was an exception, well, to the brave part anyway. He was still simple minded and weak.

He had respected several of the Ravenclaws. In fact, some of them were parts of his core Death Eaters. They were infinitely useful as ward breakers and researchers. Then he realized he had no Hufflepuffs that he could recall. This made him wonder.

Would he have won the war the first time around if he had gathered the House of the Loyal and Hardworking to be his minions?


End file.
